Chapter 6

  

Even before Henry promoted me into administration I had heard him say the job of dean was the most difficult in a university. “It’s about money and people, people and money. Forget scholarship, forget the pleasures of teaching. Deans don’t have enough time. Sometimes I even forget why I applied for this post.”

“Why are faculty so difficult to manage?” I had asked, not just thinking about George, Simon, and Edwin but about others with complaints, requests, and unreasonable attitudes toward colleagues.

“Because they are people who think otherwise,” Henry had said.

“People who think otherwise,” I repeated.

“You got it. Professors are known for differing, for holding opinions outside of the norm, even unpopular opinions. The ethos of the university encourages dissent and higher levels of discussion. But sometimes one of them just indulges in argument for its own sake, rolling around in contentiousness like a dog in bird shit.”

“They have so much freedom. Why aren’t they more loyal to the university?”

Henry had looked thoughtful. He folded his hands behind his neck and stuck his elbows up in the air. “Some professors are primarily loyal to their disciplines. For some, loyalty to a college or university comes in third.”

“What comes in second?”

“For the good ones—students. Thank God.”

  

The Tuesday after Henry’s death was my first full day as the interim dean. By ten o’clock I had endured visitations from six members of the regular faculty and calls from two alumni. Most of the conversations began with some variation of “You may not be aware of this, but, before he died, Dean Brooks and I had agreed that...” followed by a predictably self-serving request:

“...I would teach only on Tuesdays and Thursdays so I can have a block of time for research.”

“...we would resolve this at the faculty retreat in January. No later. He promised.”

Two more phone calls from worried alum and then one of the lecturers was in my doorway.

“Dean Solaris?”

“Call me Red. Everyone else does.”

“Yes, I heard the Red Queen joke. It’s making the rounds. I trust you are more even-tempered than the original.”

“I’m doing my best. How can I help you?”

“Well, before he died,” he said. Ah, yes. The lecturer had large brown eyes and a habit of talking too fast when nervous.

He began again. “That is to say, you probably know I was denied tenure at my previous university.”

“I’d heard that, but perhaps you should fill me in.”

Six years after you are hired by a university, you go up for tenure. You are either successfully tenured, or you are given a year to look for another job. In university speak it’s called “up or out.”

“I did everything I thought was expected of me,” he said. “I was a good teacher. I got the second highest student evaluations in the department. I developed new courses for the grad program. I published a dozen articles in good journals.” He was talking faster and stopped to take a breath.

“My book was almost finished. I...” His voice thickened. “I thought tenure was a slam-dunk. And they turned me down. I don’t think anything has ever hurt as much.”

I sympathized. “Tenure is never a slam dunk. Did they tell you why?”

“Not really. Vague references to my research, but I know I had some enemies in the senior faculty of my department. I mean I was always civil but not particularly deferential. I stupidly thought academic freedom meant I could speak my mind whenever I chose. I thought that was what tenure is supposed to protect?”

“For the tenured, yes. But, it can still be a crap shoot.” My breath became shallow. Amy Bishop was denied tenure at Alabama.

The lecturer was watching me cautiously. I still wasn’t sure what he wanted. “What did you and Henry discuss before he died?”

“Well, when he hired me, I asked if I could apply for an assistant professor position and for tenure before the sixth year. I mean I have already...”

“What did Henry say?”

“He said he would review my work here early next year and decide.”

“I’ll honor the deal you had with Henry.”

He exhaled loudly. “Thanks, Dean Solaris.”

“Red,” I said.

But he was out the door.

I wondered if Henry had truly made a deal. Should more people be on Joe’s list of suspects?

  

Henry’s assistant was Nell Rogers, a small and tidy gray-haired woman who had worked for Henry and the dean before him. Nell knew university procedures cold and where all the academic land mines were buried. She knew how to keep a dean out of trouble. I was thankful she had said, in the midst of her grief for Henry, that she looked forward to helping me. Nell came in a moment after the lecturer had left.

“You have a call waiting for you. He’s been on the line for several minutes—that Detective Morgan.”

“I’ll take it, thank you Nell.”

“You might ask him when they’ll take the tape down from Henry’s office door so you and I can get in there,” she said as she turned away.

I picked up the phone.

“I heard that,” said Joe. “Tell her we hope to finish up at the school tomorrow.”

“She’ll appreciate that,” I said. “What’s up?”

“First of all, congratulations. I hear you’ve been named the new dean.”

“Interim dean.”

“Well, Interim Dean Solaris, I do need to talk further with you and wondered if you had any time this afternoon—either at your office or here at the station.”

I felt a slight flush. Joe Morgan seemed to have that effect on me. “I can’t see you this afternoon because I have to teach a class in fifteen minutes,” I said, “but if you could stop by the house this evening...”

“That’ll be fine. I’ll see you at your house. How about sometime after 5:30?”

I said yes and then he asked me, “What class do you teach?”

“Media Ethics. It’s my favorite class and, even if I have to give up teaching full time so I can do this dean’s job, I hope I can continue teaching this one. My students are terrific.”

“Ethics. Hmm. I’d like to know more about that. I’ll see you this evening.”

For the first time since I heard of Henry’s death, I felt a small moment of optimism. There was something about Joe Morgan I wasn’t quite ready to define, but his curiosity—or perhaps what I hoped was his interest in me—gave me confidence. My step was lighter as I headed for class.

  

Teaching is the most joyous profession of all. There are few things more satisfying than watching a group of students engage in debate, change their minds in light of someone’s convincing argument, or just finally get it. It makes everything else I struggle over worthwhile.

Media ethics is an optional course in my school and I’ve never had more than thirty students a semester.

Many have remained good friends long after the course and their graduation was over, and some still call me when they face ethical dilemmas in their professional lives.

Several write letters telling me how useful my course was to them after they graduated.

If I had my way, we would start teaching ethics in fourth grade, not wait until junior year in college. My afternoon class in media ethics was the only good part of my first day as dean of journalism.

“I’m sorry to hear about Dean Brooks but I’m psyched you’re our new dean,” said Samantha, usually the first to speak.

“Sweet,” said the sloe-eyed young man next to her. Peter leads his own rock band.

“Thank you,” I said. “I’m sure you’ve already talked with your other professors, but do any of you have questions about the dean’s death? Or feelings you would like to talk about?”

“Oh my God, it’s so sad,” said Olivia, tugging on a lock in the center of a thicket of curly brown hair. Ever thoughtful, often nervous. “His kids aren’t much older than we are. I can totally imagine how they feel. My dad died two years ago.”

“So did mine,” said Eric, star halfback.

“How did the dean die? Was it really a heart attack?” came from Tammy across the room.

“That’s what we’ve been told,” I said.

“I’m so sorry about it. Will there be a funeral?”

“I’m not sure. The provost says his children may prefer a small memorial gathering.”

“That’s better,” said Eric. “Funerals are barbaric.”

“Oh, I don’t agree,” said Samantha. “Some people need the rituals of the funeral to help them begin to grieve. They need to see their loved one honored.”

“And some would like to avoid the pompous ass kissing from people who never gave that much of a damn for the guy in the first place,” said the halfback.

“How should we cover this in the student paper?” I said.

“Short and simple,” came one reply. “I heard the details were pretty gory.”

“But,” said Peter, “as journalists aren’t we obligated to be specific? I mean what if the fall in the stairwell turns out to be what really caused his death rather than a heart attack...”

“We also have an obligation to the readers and the family not to gross them out,” said Samantha next to him.

It was hard for me to teach that day, but I was grateful for my students’ thoughtfulness.

  

The dog knew. Just a quiet lick on my hand when I came through the door. Animals are so in touch.

I fed the dog and poured myself a glass of wine. The television news was boring and then a reporter came on with an interview of Elaine Morgan Witter about Henry and what he’d done for the school. As a local editor, colleague, and friend of Henry, Elaine provided a respectful, even tender obituary. She looked good on television, with the dark green eyes and the thick hair she shares with her brother. I couldn’t help but watch the clock, knowing Joe would arrive soon.

At the end of the five o’clock news, the doorbell rang and there stood Joe Morgan. This time the dog jumped up and down. A bias for alpha males I reasoned, but I did have to admit Joe looked very attractive in a black cashmere turtleneck.

“Is this a good time to talk?” he said.

“Good as any,” I said leading him into the living room. “Wine?”

“Thanks.” He sat down. “Red wine if you have it.”

“I do. I take it you’re not on duty.”

“I sort of am on duty, but I’ll take the wine.”

“Bad day?”

“You might say so,” he said.

I brought him a glass and sat down opposite him.

“How are you holding up?” He looked sympathetic.

“I’m sad but managing.”

“Meredith...um, Red.” He looked down at his shoes. “Much as I would like to know more about the faculty and more about your ethics course, right now I have to ask you where you were Sunday?”

Where I was? “Joe, do I need an alibi? Henry died of a heart attack, didn’t he?”

“Please just answer my question.” Joe’s green eyes were fixed on me. His was by far the best-looking face of the day.

“Okay, Detective. I went to a late afternoon movie with Sadie Hawkins.”

That got a smile. “Sadie who?”

“Seraphim Hawkins, former dean of liberal arts and a good friend. Everyone calls her Sadie.”

“What time did you leave the movie?”

“I’m not sure, but Sadie and I had some drinks here and, just as she left, the phone rang. It was Edwin Cartwell telling me about finding Henry.”

“And Dr. Hawkins can vouch for you, for the late afternoon and early evening as well,” Joe said.

“She can. Now tell me why she needs to?”

“Because troubling stuff came up in the autopsy,” said Joe, sipping his wine. “There were injuries on Henry Brooks’ body that are inconsistent with a heart attack or a fall forward down a flight of stairs.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning more investigation into his death.”

“To determine...what?”

Joe looked very uncomfortable. “Other contributing factors.”

“That’s bloody vague.”

Joe looked away from me, got up and went to the window. The dog followed him and he scratched behind the dog’s ears.

“I have to ask you to stop by the station sometime tomorrow and give a statement,” he said with his back still to me.

“Is that why you seem uncomfortable?” I walked over to stand beside him.

“In part.”

“What’s the other part?”

He turned from the window toward me. “The other part is I wanted to ask you out to dinner and this makes it awkward.”

I smiled up at him. I admired a good chiseled face with a firm jaw line and a straight nose, not to mention those eyes. Dinner? Yes, indeed.

“So ask,” I said attempting to sound casual.

“Tomorrow night,” he said. Not quite a question.

“After I’ve given my statement?”

“Yep.”

“And after you’ve confirmed my alibi.”

He handed me his wine glass and moved to the front door. I held it open. For a moment he leaned toward me. I thought he might kiss me, but he raised his hand and very lightly touched my shoulder.

“I’ll be here to pick you up at 6:30 tomorrow,” he said, and left.

I spent the evening wondering whether or not Joe Morgan had wanted to kiss me but backed off. Later in bed, I decided the gentle touch of his hand was even better than a kiss. A kiss is over and done with. Everyone kisses everyone. The touch of his fingertips was more intimate, more promising.